OCR Text |
Show THE CITIZEN s THINGS BOOKISH WHiiiHiiiiMiwiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiMiwiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiamumiiimnaimMnimiiiuiuiuiiuiimmmniiiiiiHiumiiiimnwmmHimimimiiMmJ Edited By WILLIAM C. WINDER, Jr. It does not often happen that I feel to offer an apology for the books I read and write about. In writing this page every week I am under no restraint as to the subject matter of my criticisms nor my manner of expression. This explains in part at least why most of my writing has consisted of appreciations rather than depreciations, why I have been inclined to praise rather than denounce. It is but natural that the choice of my reading material is by no means infallible; I strike bad ones along with the good, but somehow I find a far finer flavor in thinking over and dissecting my enthusiasms rather than my antipathies. If I find a work that by its matter or form appeals to me, my mind opens fully to its influence as a plant responds to the sun; a minute dissection of its essence takes place . and my own ideas are clarified or by the new contact. But, on the other hand, if the work is obnoxious to me I find it difficult to expand, to even consider it worth while the effort of denunciation. This rather extensive explanation Is occasioned by the fact that a valued friend brought ine his copy of a book entitled, The Dim Lantern, by Temple Bailey, with an urgent request that I read it and write a criticism of it. In making this request he explained that a certain organization in this section of the country with a membership of many thousand had chosen this book as part or all of a summer reading course for its members. Such a fact of itself interests me as I never see a person with a book without my curiosity being aroused. Such a small minority reads at all, that the selecting of a book for thousands to read could well be made quite an event. This natural curiosity together with my promise to this friend compelled me to read this book through its 344 banal pages to the obvious conclusion. As I remarked before the selection of such a book is a matter of importance, even more so in that these parcry-staliz- ed ticular readers are at an impressionable period of life. The real purpose of any reading course must be to excite within the readers a desire for good literature, a desire to search the beautiful work of others for something which will help them form their own ideas coherently. That should be the fundamental idea of all schools and all teaching; the things one learns at school are not nearly so important as the acquistion of a desire to find ones true self through further outside investigation and self analysis. I realize that I have here made a quite obvious declaration, yet I think it not amiss in trying to arrive at what one might rightfully expect in a book which is recommended to a large number of young people. To my mind such a book must, first of all, give a true picture of life at some point or other or it should ad mit that it is a work of the imagination, a wonderful fancy, perhaps simply a fairy tale. It should either be honest with life or it should be in the realm beyond life. It should be well written, done by a person who can so arrange words that they dance into life and by their very aptness or the beauty of their music simply enthrall the imagination until it yearns for more. If it be a novel, rather than a tale or a fantasy, let it tell something of the emotions and impulses, the joys and sorrows, of living people. Permit a note of spontaneous laughter to bring a quickening to the spirit of the reader, or let a shaft of poignant sorrow pierce his heart as it grasped with an aching pain the heart of that man or woman who lived, although it may have been but a life within the pages of a book. Let there be a natural march of cause and consequence. Let it picture, truthfully and well, some phase of life and experience. In postulating these requirements, I do not mean to say that any one book must possess them all. Such masterpieces seldom appear. But it should possess to a degree the majority of qualities mentioned. Such a book would be easy to find by any person with a moderate knowledge of contemporary writers and their books. Such a problem is not difficult of solution, yet the choice which was made in this instance is a book without a single point in its favor. It is a long time since 1 attempted to wade through such a slough of saccharine banality. It does not contain a single witty remark; the repartee is that of morons; the emotions are those of wooden men; its action artificial. Perhaps none of those who read this book will ever read Capeks play, R. U. R., but if they do I feel sure they will agree with me that the book might have been written by one of Rossums Universal Robots for the enjoyment and edification of the rest. For the benefit of those who might be interested in knowing what the 344 pages contain, I will give the whole story as salted down in the announcement on the front cover, Jane Barnes is loved by two men, Evans Follette and Frederick Towne; one shattered by war, the other enjoying middle aged opulence. To one she is the dim lantern shining through the fog of despair and to the other a bright jewel to be purchased. It is a delightfully intriguing tale which leads one through tense hours when love seems set at nought for the great god, That tells the whole story Money. and you are several hours and two dollars to the good. One has here the perfect setting for the reader who is totally lacking in intelligence the beautiful heroine who gets in up to her ankles but of course was predestined from the morning of the world to come out with flying colors, in which statement I nearly forgot that , pure white is not a color; the soulful hero who steadily climbs from the abysmal depths of despair up to unheard of heights; the rich, cultured villain who hasnt a chance in ten million. We see caricatures of such stuff in vaudeville and pity the boobs of yesteryear. But instead of a caricature, one here finds the whole thing in all its pristine purity. The book contains nothing of life, and this nothing is abominably told. bids My sympathy for the ninth-rater- s me hesitate in saying that it is the I defy anyone work of a tenth-rateto point out to me, and if I lose I will admit my oversight, a single touch of humor or wit; one clever idea or a commonplace one cleverly expressed; one brilliant sequence of words; a single musical rhythm or cadence; one human emotion which tells our hearts that it has ever been experienced by the writer; one phase of life which has. not been far more truthfully and beautifully told a hundred times within the last couple of years; in fact any phase of the thing called life in the book which rings true to any part of human life; any single circumstance in the book which flows in natural sequence and is not placed there arbitrarily and artificially for the sole purpose of making the story go its alloted length. In fact, I gladly invite enlightenment as to any worthy feature the book may possess. And lastly I arrive at its influence. It is no doubt argued in its favor that it carries a wholesome home influence. The magical influence of my home has never been based on calling chickens biddies, nor on calling cats pussies, nor on the continued use of such language as, There had been a celestial canape, a heavenly soup, etc. As an impressionable young person who had read this book upon the advice of one who ought to know better, my verdict would surely be, If this be the beginning of my literary Its injourney, right now it ends. fluence on me is fairly good; it drives me with a deepei longing toward something in whose charm I can forget those wasted hours. Having thus made my apology and I think given sufficient evidence for it, I pass on to a book of infinitely greater merit. I do not mean to say that La Parcelle 32, by Ernest Perochon, is a great book, but it is a worthy one. It is simple and sincere and written with a rare understanding of its people and their life. The lation of the soul of the French peasant and of how his love for the land of his fathers, legitimate and even admirable in moderation, can grow beyond control into something destructive and sinister. Nor was the writer of those words carried away by his desire to create an interest in the book. Inside the covers, and with no pages to spare, one finds desperately living human beings, They are of our day, that is the late war period, but they are not of our race or culture. It tells of the old French peasantry whose adored traditions have withstood the tempests of thought which have played around and about them down r. through the centuries. The people of this Perochon book are of the race of Ilemons Marie that exquisite voice of upper Quebec. They are people of the Chapdelaine, soil, they feel themselves to be of it, and nothing else in the world counts for them. There is in experience than the nothing more ownership, the conquest, the abaiJ oned love of the land itself by certain sturdy races of men. To them it is the one eternal thing, beside which life and death themselves are but passing incidents. . But under the weight of such a passion, it is not difficult to foresee.' sinister results, becoming darker and darker in proportion as other mental and heart interests are relinquished to the Insensate greed of land-lusThe book, however, is not offered as an object lesson; rather it is offered as an honest and luminous picture of the lives, both inner ai; outward, of this class of men. The book, while being well written, is not brilliantly executed, but this is quickly overlooked in the significance of its straightforwardness and simplicity. It is punctuated throughout, however, with a sly humor and an ironic touch which bespeaks one who has shed many of his illusions. These book people will live in my mind for many a year simply because they are human beings with their loves and hatreds, a few good points and plenty of failings. The fact that there are no demigods among them makes a fine bond of kinship between us. One has no feelings of love for any one of these fellows, but surely one must recognize them as children of tradition and environment, just as are we ourselves. Perochon knows these people, reads pretty thoroughly their hearts. It is with the same degree of understanding that he speaks of their virtues and of their vices. He does not extol; he does not condemn; he simply pictures a strange class of human beings in their dealings with each other. He brings into strong relief a sordidness of character, I think unwittingly, a characteristic trait which even now is driving that nation awe-inspiri- ng . . t. flint-hearte- d toward terrible disaster. Hemon in writing his masterpiece dipped his pen in the well of love for the north country, and a singing of the forests and the seasons and the indomitable will of the pioneer is the result, a voice which one will not soon forget, nor will he ever have the desire to do so. Perochon understands the great love of the land, but he lacks the romance which filled the heart of Hemon. He is rather a tached analyst of the minds and impulses of these people he knows so well. His book carries with it the inspiring lure of the land, but more than that it lays bare the very souls of these men who are the victims of that lure. It lacks the beauty of form and . Maria Chapdelaine, but its voice, though often sordid and mean, is ho less honest, no less man, hardly less epic. expression of LIBERTY MOTOR OILS) BEST FOR YOUR AUTO If jronr dealer can not serve yon, phone os Wasatch 2961. Office, 437 5 1 Ness Bldg. E |